


It Doesn't Matter

by decembersiris



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/F, season 6 reunion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2020-05-12 02:22:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19219642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/decembersiris/pseuds/decembersiris
Summary: Jon and Sansa's reunion





	It Doesn't Matter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LearaBribage](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LearaBribage/gifts).



> quick oneshot for my friend who loves jonsa, happy birthday brodo! Hope you like it!

Sansa missed how bitter the cold was on her tongue, her throat, her lungs. It froze her insides with the familiarity of home even though she was too far north for home, if she could even call Winterfell that now. But now as she reached the far end of Castle Black with Brienne at her side, she sensed a warmth festering in her stomach, a touch of excitement and eagerness in the shadow of fear. She was anxious as she looked about the decrepit buildings, worn and battered by an endless winter snow. She scanned the faces of men in black and crows’ feathers, eyes searching for a familiar face that she suddenly feared she would not longer recognize. How long had it been? Too many years, and too many still in their youth when she ignored and rejected him for reasons she did not fully understand. But none of that mattered now to her now that she was here, and she desperately hoped he felt the same.

She dismounted her horse, her boots crunching on crystal snow as she stepped forward, her cerulean eyes unblinking as she looked about. Her heart was in her throat when she heard the sound of boots clomping on wood, and she snapped her head up to look at the building in front of her. Her breath ghosted like a white haze before her eyes and as it dissipated, she could see the man she sought standing before her on the stairs.

Jon Snow stared at her in disbelief as if he were seeing specter come all the way from Kings Landing to remind him of his failings. How long had it been since he’d seen such eyes, hair as red as the Weirwood tree, disheveled from the length of her journey. His heart hammered, more alive than he’d felt it what felt like ages. He could not withhold himself; he rushed to her and embraced her.

Sansa clutched to him as he lifted her, her feet dangling as he held her, squeezed her as she him. She buried her face in his shoulder, brushing the soft feathers against his cheek. She could not help but take in his scent, breathing out in complete relief. Gently, he placed her down and waited a moment more before letting her go, smiling as he stared into her eyes.

“Sansa,” he said gruffly, “I’m so happy to see you.”

She smiled, “Me too.”

He took her into the Commander’s lodgings, his lodgings. He had food brought for them both as they sat by the fire together, enjoying the silence save the crackling of the flames as they slowly devoured the wood. They remained alone together for hours, talking, sharing stories, confiding horrors, opening their hearts to each other which they never would have done any time prior together. But this was different. They were the only ones left of a dying house. They were all they had now.

“Littlefinger sold me to the Boltons,” Sansa said, recounting her experience in Winterfell as she stared into the embers. “I knew better than to trust Baelish but there were no other options for me. I had nowhere to go. I did not think he would willfully put me in such danger.”

She paused, hesitating as her mind replayed such horrid memories. Jon watched her as she closed her eyes, her hands curling into fits.

“I was wed to Ramsay. And that night in father’s old room, he…” she could not bring herself to finish. Biting her lip, she could feel the tears brimming in her eyes, and she wondered if Jon could see the wrath in the swirls of blue. But still, it was too hard to finish, the wound still fresh, and she feared such a wound would fester and ooze at the breath of the word.

Jon, his heart quickening, breaking, as he witnessed Sansa in such a state, leaned over and touched her hand, gripping it roughly, eagerly.

“You needn’t speak anymore,” he said. “Ramsay will pay for what he’s done.”

Sansa said nothing, staring the warm, rough hand holding hers. Elation rushed through her blood from her hand to her heart, spreading like poison through her veins to her limbs. She searched his eyes. Did he feel it too? Or was it her mind playing tricks on her as her frequent imagination did? But Jon hadn’t removed her eyes from her, hadn’t taken his hand away.

“I’m here now, Sansa. I’ll protect you.” His voice was sincere and gentle.

The gleam of the fire was in his eyes, and he saw the same in hers. In hers it was bright, fierce, gold as the sun and beautiful as the stars. His insides burned and he prayed, deep in his bones that she felt as he did. Hesitantly, he placed his hand at her neck, his fingers cradling the back of her head. She didn’t pull away. He saw it then, his invitation in the slight parting in her lips. He kissed her, softly at first, testing the ice on her lips. She was just as tentative, feeling him as he moved against her, melting into his touch. He was sweet on her tongue, the scruff of his beard on her skin tantalizing, and her mind fogging with utter euphoria that she nearly forgot the grief that clung to her heart. As he pulled away from her, he whispered into her lips, “Is this all right?”

And Sansa realized then her childhood dislike of dear Jon Snow. It wasn’t dislike at all, but the seed of the feeling that she felt now, that which she could not name but deeply understood. The feeling blossomed in her now as she stared into his dark eyes. “Does it matter?” She asked.

She kissed him then, pressing harder than before, more sure, more certain. It was eager and hungry as her tongue grazed his lip, and he responded in equal need. They breathed deeply between kisses, sucking in air as if winter frost sought to steal it, and she wrapped her hand about the back of his neck as he stroked her cheek with those rough fingers of his. She felt it, and he felt it, the thrill, the exhilaration as their kisses deepened, and he could not keep himself from her. He sought for her, touched her, moved his hand between the fabric of her dress and the warmth of her skin. Sansa softly moaned into his mouth as his fingertips lightly danced over her breast. She placed her hand over his, and Jon thought he would be able to continue, but then she pulled away from his lips and stopped his ministrations. Something told her to stop, to take a moment, to remember herself. She sighed, staring into his eyes before pressing her forehead to his, whispering, “It doesn’t matter.”

The words were relief to them both, and they could not help but smile.


End file.
